


Point Blank Range

by Ariss_Tenoh



Category: Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: F/M, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 16:09:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 32
Words: 16,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariss_Tenoh/pseuds/Ariss_Tenoh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An assassin and an FBI agent meet. Whether it was chance or destiny, now that they are in one another's orbit they can't break free.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Old author's notes: "This story has been haunting me for nearly 2 years. I decided to give up and write it as a form of exorcism. I used themes and prompts from the 50_lovequotes and slash_100 comms on LJ. There are 100 parts to this fic so don't be surprised if length varies on the chapters."
> 
> I began writing this on May 26th 2007 and it's been coming in bursts of writing and going on hiatus whenever RL interfered. I do plan on finishing this fic though. It should be noted that many characters from the FF verse will be making an appearance, their characterization altered slightly to fit the pseudo-real world setting of this fic but hopefully still maintaining the character's integrity. It's my sincere wish as an author that you will enjoy reading this story as much as I've enjoyed writing it.

On the roof of an old, run-down building, a man lay on his stomach waiting. He shifted a little, trying to find a comfortable position. None was to be found on hard cement. Even so, he moved and stretched as much as he dared before lying motionless again.

 

Waiting. Always waiting.

 

It was the cornerstone of his profession. He was good at it. His profession and infinite patience that is. There were times though, he couldn't suppress the disquieting feeling that he was waiting for something to happen. Whether it was a result of his training or his lack of a partner now... he pushed the thoughts away. Overthinking and overanalyzing things, too much white noise in his mind. Deep fanciful thoughts didn't belong in his life; they served no purpose. He had been taught utilitarianism. _Simplify. Keep things simple and maybe you'll get to live another day._ His instructor had told him that. A man who'd spent his life in the army and to whom the military codes were a way of life.

 

Old but not decrepit. Still stings, kinda like good whiskey. He smiled, a bare twitch of his lips.

 

There was movement in the street below. He cut all idle thinking and fixed his eye through the scope.

 

The target stepped out of the door of the designated building. Said building was down the street with five other buildings between them. At this late hour there was little traffic and even less people around. A few homeless souls drifted into his line of sight but they soon disappeared into the side alleys and building corners they inhabited. He adjusted the scope; the target's image became clearer. The target walked toward a street lamp and stood under it, searching his coat's pockets. He took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one.

 

He looked through the scope, checked his calculations, and prepared his shot. It was a calm night, no wind to hinder him. No moon either but in a city there was more than enough light to see by. He could feel it descend on him, the cold sharp state of being. His breathing became deep, his heartbeat slowed, colours sharpened to an almost painful intensity, yet sounds grew dim and distant. He lost awareness of himself as a separate entity. There was only the moment and he was part of it.

 

One shot, one kill. Cliché perhaps but it too was part of it.

 

Between one heartbeat and another, body suspending its animation, lungs holding their air, pupils contracting, a finger pulled, light flashed...

 

The sound of a shot rang in the empty street. The target stood still for a minute, swayed, and crumpled. It was a thing on the pavement now, perhaps it even stained the ground red.

 

He blinked a few times to ease the strain on his eyes. He removed his rifle from its resting place and folded its bipod, gave the rifle a quick wipe with a cloth, and slid everything into a rifle case. Then it all went into a dusty green canvas bag. He stood up and went over the side of the building where a fire escape hung. He climbed down; his boots landed with a soft thud on the ground. He checked both sides of the alley. No pursuers. He hefted the bag to his shoulder and disappeared into the night.

 

A rectangular light on a building's rear exit illuminated his face for a few seconds as he passed by. It revealed youthful features; these gave their possessor a seemingly tragic air of beauty as they contrasted with the blankness in his dark blue eyes.

 

 

~ To Be Continued ~

 

_____________________________

Prompt: 1.Beginning

Theme: 15. Some things are worth waiting for...even if you have to wait forever.


	2. Chapter 2

The sun was shining. The sky was blue. It was a beautiful day and to top it off, he'd had a good night's sleep and a cup of steaming good coffee in his hand. It figured that if a day began so well, it was going to go downhill from there. This little law of nature greeted him once he got off the elevator and walked into the bullpen.

 

"Almasy, get in here." His partner's elegant head disappeared back into the meeting room.

 

He resisted the urge to do something childish like roll his eyes, sigh, or jump up and down screaming in frustration. He was sure that wasn't included in the FBI's code of conduct. It was damn tempting though. Feeling rebellious, he strode over to his desk and went through his morning ritual. His jacket went on his cubicle's partition, the coffee cup on his desk, and he seated himself on his chair. He turned on hs pc and waited for the logo to appear. If they started the meeting without him, they could afford to wait.

 

Ten minutes later he began to feel silly. He got up to join the others in the meeting room. A few of his colleagues gave him sympathetic smiles when he passed. He opened the door and stepped in.

 

"Almasy, so nice of you to join us," Agent Johnson interrupted his speech to greet Agent Seifer Almasy.

 

Seifer's expression was indifferent. He found a nearby desk and perched on it. His partner, Felicia Trepe, who'd called him earlier, was giving him disapproving looks out of the corner of her eye. He didn't pay attention to her. The problem with his so-called partner, Seifer thought, was she had a major attitude problem. In Seifer's humble opinion at least. She was in her late twenties, honey blonde hair tied back in a severe chignon, and laser blue eyes behind thin silver glasses. She was hands down the most attractive woman in their department and he might have felt better at the guys' jokes if she wasn't such an uptight.... His mind turned blank. What was the right adjective or adverb to describe someone beautiful enough to be a model but dressed and acted like a Victorian governess. No one had asked him if he wanted an instructor fresh out of Quantico as a partner.

 

A wry smile twisted his mouth. Of course they wouldn't ask. The solution to an agent whose idea of teamwork was "Stay out of my way" was to assign him a fellow agent incapable of taking two steps without checking the regulations handbook.

 

"Almasy, are you even listening to me?"

 

Seifer raised his eyes from his absorbed contemplation of the desk's wood surface.

 

"Yeah, I heard you Johnson," he said in a lazy drawl, "Our important witness got killed two days before he was to go into protective custody. I noticed you didn't say anything about telling Larabee 'bout this." Seifer smirked, glee dancing in his light green eyes. Combined with his blond hair and good looks, the effect made him look like a roguish cowboy. The few female agents in the room smiled in appreciation and indulgence. Sometimes you just couldn't take Almasy seriously.

 

Johnson stood by the whiteboard at the end of the room. At 6'1 and built like a football player, he presented a suitably intimidating picture of an FBI agent. Right now though he looked silly trying to point out maps and correlation points stuck on the board. 

 

"There's got to be a leak. Maybe on the ATF's side." Johnson was all false bravado now.

 

Seifer's smirk stretched into a wide malicious grin. He raised both eyebrows and exclaimed, "You're going to blame them for bungling this operation. Wow, Johnson. You've got balls to tell that to Larabee." Chris Larabee was the head of ATF's Team Seven. His team's success rate was among the highest in the country. Their joint operation with the FBI had been to arrest several people smuggling illegal arms into the country, people with suspected ties to organized crime families. Larabee was also known for having a mean temper and zero patience with incompetence. That went double for inter-agency cooperation tasks. Seifer was looking forward to watching Larabee tear into Mr. Perfect Agent Johnson. He was aware the other agents were silent and waiting to see how this would end. Everyone knew Johnson was bad at humility and admitting mistakes.

 

Predictably, Johnson flushed. He stood ramrod straight in a pose of wounded dignity. Or too much ego. 

 

"Agent Almasy, are you implying that I mishandled-"

 

He was cut off by Seifer's partner rushing to say, "Agent Johnson, Seifer didn't-"

 

Trepe looked embarrassed and apologised for interrupting Johnson. Johnson, never one to look bad in front of a woman, apologised too.

 

Seifer decided he'd had enough. He got down from his perch on the desk's corner, his shoes making a loud _crack_ against the floor. The comments and murmurs in the room ceased entirely. All eyes were on him now.

 

He stepped up to the table in front of the whiteboard, and picked up the victim's picture. The victim and former witness lay facedown in his own blood. Seifer put the picture back into its file and carried it with him to the door. He looked over his shoulder at Johnson, "I've got a killer to find. Good luck with Larabee." He couldn't resist adding.

 

The door closed behind him on Johnson's tight expression, eyes full of impotent rage. 

 

 

~ To Be Continued ~

 

________________________________________

Prompt: 22.Death

ATF: Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, a law enforcement agency within the United States Department of Justice.   
A cookie to anyone who recognises the cameo here^_~ I should also say that some characters will have slightly altered names because FF names are too strange for a real world setting.


	3. Chapter 3

Jacket and car keys in his hand, Seifer stood in front of the elevator and pressed the down button a few times, taking his frustration out on it.

 

The sound of heels clicking on the floor came near. He didn't turn around, instead his hand moved to the inside of his jacket seeking his gun. His fingers caressed the cold steel, hoping to infuse himself with its chill. He was going to need it.

 

Trepe stood beside him. She too didn't look at him.

 

A sigh bubbled in his chest eager to come out with the same need of a person held underwater for too long.

 

The ride to the underground parking lot was tense. The same tension that characterized all their interactions, Seifer thought.

 

~ To Be Continued ~

 

_______________________

Prompt: 20.Her


	4. Chapter 4

"C'mon, let's have it."

 

She just stood there and gave him a stern, silent look. The image of her as a schoolteacher grew stronger in Seifer's mind.

 

Seifer didn't believe in the silent treatment. If there was a problem, he preferred to have it out in the open.

 

The blue sedan was between them. A clear hint to the vast gulf between the two agents.

 

"If you don't like me or the way I work, ask for re-assignment."

 

Maybe it was the rare seriousness he displayed or his no-nonsense attitude, but she finally spoke, "I have nothing to say. You knew perfectly well your behaviour was unacceptable and you did it anyway. Openly insulting a senior agent."

 

 _A stand-off. Wonderful._ He opened his mouth but she beat him to it.

 

"It would look bad if I requested a new partner after only three months."

 

Seifer looked down and smiled. He unlocked the car's doors and opened his side, the driver's side.

 

"Well, I guess that's that. We'll keep it strictly business and hope the AD will notice and split us up." He grinned at her and got into the car. His innuendo made her cheeks red, whether it was in anger or embarrasment he didn't care. He thought it a pity she looked even prettier when she was angry.

 

_Doesn't mean I want to sleep with her. Last thing I need is for her to get attached._

 

Agent Felicia Trepe, who preferred no one call her by her first name, got in. She closed her door with more force than was necessary.

 

He started the engine and backed the car out of its parking space in one fast, smooth reverse. He felt better seeing his _partner_ clutch the door handle, her pretty lips pressed thin. Coming out of the underground parking, the sunlight almost blinded him but it served to distract him. He had a case on his hands and a killer to find. Everything else could wait.

 

 

~ To Be Continued ~ 

_______________________________

Prompt: 5.Lasts

AD: Assistant Director.


	5. Chapter 5

It was a bad neighbourhood. Suicide Slums, they called it. The name was an exaggeration; human nature tended to dwell on negative aspects. He had found that only fourteen people had committed suicide over the last thirty years. The other casualties were due to drug abuse, wayward bullets, and hit-and-runs.

 

He sat on the windowsill, a window that had only its frame and no glass panes, balancing himself with one leg on it and another on the floor. Outside, the light was dying. Sunset but it couldn't be seen in a cityscape. Only the sun's light splashing orange and red hues on steel and concrete.

 

In the midst of a city full of people and a violent neighbourhood, he was comfortably alone.

 

 

~ To Be Continued ~

_________________________

Prompt: 2.Middles


	6. Chapter 6

Another day, another sunrise soon to take place.

 

The young man sat on the windowsill; it was becoming his preferred spot in the room. His mind warned him to avoid repeated patterns of behaviour; it made him predictable. Predictable got one killed. His eyes wandered around the tiny apartment. It was adequate, situated as it was on the edge of Suicide Slums and a better neighbourhood two streets away. There were multiple entry and exit points, which was the basis for his choice. The building itself had ten floors; most of the upper floors were empty. That had allowed him to get this room on the corner of the tenth floor; it had easy access to the roof.

 

He was sitting on the windowsill, perched between safety inside the room and a drop of ten floors on the other side. His right hand held his rifle in a loose grip, out of sight. His left held a cell phone of no particular brand or model.

 

He was waiting for it to ring.

 

~ To Be Continued ~

____________________________

Prompt: 31.Sunrise


	7. Chapter 7

The cell phone rang. After three rings, he answered.

 

"Yes?"

 

"The man is in protective custody. My men are watching the house but they are powerless to do anything. There are two FBI agents with him at all times and a patrol car passes by the house at regular intervals." The voice emitting from the phone was male and a deep, soothing baritone.

 

He said nothing, waiting.

 

"The court date is set for the twenty seventh," the man informed him, leaving the sentence open-ended.

 

A car on the street below turned into a side street, its tires screeching like a crow on the asphalt.

 

"Which entrance are they using?"

 

"The back entrance is most likely given recent events. I'll contact my source and let you know."

 

"All right." He ended the call.

 

~ To Be Continued ~

___________________

Prompt: 27.Sound


	8. Chapter 8

He could still hear the echo of the conversation in his ear.

 

_Too much time in this room. I'll need to leave tomorrow and spend the day getting used to crowds and noises. Urban life is an ugly cacophony._

 

He left the cell phone on an old table near his cot. The sun had set. There was a full moon tonight; he wasn't going to see it. Smoke and light pollution prevented that. He stepped away from the window and stood in the middle of the room. He stretched, standing on his toes, arms reaching upwards. Several vertebrae in his back snapped, he sighed, feeling better. For a moment, he stood alone in the room and didn't know what he was doing in such a decrepit place. His awareness returned with sudden swiftness, along with an intense longing to go home. The closest approximation he had for 'home' at least. He went back to the window and pulled the new black curtains he bought across the empty window.

 

There were matches on the small table. He slid the box open and used the matches to light the various candles in the room.

 

Night was falling and there were no stars to wish upon.

 

 

~ To Be Continued ~

 

__________________

Prompt: 85.Low

Theme: 22. People wish upon stars because one day, they hope that those wishes will come true.


	9. Chapter 9

Special agent Seifer Almasy was in a foul mood. Two weeks since the shooting and no leads. Not one. The person who killed their witness was still out there. He was a hired gun of course but Seifer had checked the list of usual suspects in town and those known killers in nearby states, and none of them had done it or had the skill and brains to get away with such a neat kill. The few with the ability to do it had been on other jobs, and one was even lying in a hospital bed recovering from broken ribs. To make it worse, their prime suspect for the dastardly deed was currently spending a sentence of twenty-five years in a maximum-security prison. _On the other fucking coast of the States._ He could feel a massive headache coming.

 

He glared at the papers strewn across his desk. If he couldn't find the killer, their second witness wasn't going to live long and if this witness died, as he was likely the next target, the case against Sparda would be dropped. 

 

Seifer had less than eight days to find the shooter.

 

_Damn it all!_

 

 

~ To Be Continued ~

__________________

Prompt: 7.Days


	10. Chapter 10

The courthouse was on an avenue lined with tall green trees and carefully landscaped flowers forming small islands between the grey pavement and the main street.

 

_Ironic that a place where judgment is passed on people, innocent and guilty alike, should look like Elysium._

 

He sat in one of the numerous outdoor cafes and coffee shops that spread on the street opposite the courthouse. A half-eaten sandwich and a mug of mild tea on his table. In faded jeans, long-sleeved shirt and jacket, and running shoes, he looked like any student from the nearby university; out for a quick bite before another round of lectures. His pen kept scribbling on a small notepad while he surveyed the streets and grounds around the courthouse. He'd have to check the back streets later, much later when the noonday crowds left.

 

"Would you like more tea?" asked a cheerful voice from behind him.

 

His hand, the one lying on his thigh, crept toward the knife hidden in a specially sewn inner pocket of his jacket. He turned around and schooled his face into a genial smile. It was the petite waitress who'd served him earlier. From her make-up, hair, and quaint accent, she was probably from out of town.

 

"No, thanks. I'm fine."

 

The girl's smile dimmed and she started to fidget and very obviously try to find something to say to him.

 

_Oh.._

 

It dawned on him what her behaviour meant so he smiled some more, gave her a quick once-over that she would notice, and made small talk. He had to react the way any young man would react when a cute girl showed interest. Pretty soon he learned her name was Melissa, she was staying with her aunt here during the summer break, next year she was going to be a freshman at the university here, and so on. Ad nauseam. He nodded and said little besides yes and no. Older and more experienced men had told him that was the best way to deal with women. Just nod and agree, they'd told him, safest way. He didn't have enough experience to contradict them so he followed their advice.

 

"Are you a math major?" She asked suddenly in between a torrent of speech. When he blinked at her, she gestured, "Your notepad. It's full of numbers."

 

A wicked smile threatened to spoil his friendly charade. The pad and its torn papers spread on the table had figures of wind speed and direction, various factors of air density, inclination angle, etc. A part of his reconnaissance mission today and the equations were the mathematics of assassination. Before he could find a suitable reply for her, another waitress called 'Melissa' and she gave him a shy smile.

 

"It's so embarrassing but I've been blathering and I haven't asked your name yet?"

 

Yes, normal people asked strangers about their names. He'd forgotten.

 

"Leon," the young man's eyes had an odd gleam, "My name is Leon."

 

~ To Be Continued ~

___________________

Prompt: 81.School


	11. Chapter 11

The chicken stew was boiling in its pot on the stove. Seifer stood at the kitchen counter cutting lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, and carrots into small pieces. He swept the vegetables into a salad bowl. He'd chosen to spend the weekend at home. The laundry pile was reaching monstrous heights and his apartment needed a good vacuuming session; the main reason he was staying home though was to think. He always tried to take a day off if he could before a major operation. Seifer checked on the stew. A small teaspoon of salt and more herbs went into the pot and he closed its lid.

 

Leaning against the counter, a dozen thoughts flitted through his mind. None stayed long enough to catch his attention. The court date was set for Monday. There was a good chance their suspect would be there, hiding in one of the nearby buildings. Damn the courthouse for being located in such a populated area. The Bureau had its SWAT team ready, but Seifer thought it was too bad Larabee's team couldn't be there. He preferred them as backup and their guy Tanner was known to be an excellent marksman. Personally, Seifer didn't care much about the witness; the man was just another criminal who belonged in jail. He didn't think the man should be rewarded with a new life courtesy of the DA and the Witness Protection Program. Oh he understood the bigger fish in the ocean theory, but enough small time criminals getting away could cause the same problems as a big player. A self-deprecating smile appeared on his face. Sometimes he thought he really should have been a simple detective in the police force. Less rules and red tape, even if he knew that was wishful thinking.

 

_But nooo. I wanted to be a white knight and save people and it had to be on an epic scale._

 

Seifer shook his head. His foster mother always warned him his daydreaming would get him into trouble. He thought wearing a suit and tie to work everyday was punishment enough. Steam pushed the pot's lid up. He leaned forward and turned off the stove. A pair of oven gloves and he moved the pot to a protective mat on the counter. Plate and spoon found; he served himself. His mind returned to the case. If he could catch the assassin, it would make up for the boring cases and paperwork he'd been doing these past few months. He took a spoonful of the stew into his mouth. The food tasted good.

 

~ To Be Continued ~

 

____________________

Prompt: 55.If


	12. Chapter 12

Candles burned, their warm golden light created a certain ambiance in the room. An incense stick stood in an empty glass, leaning against the side, while its ashes fell on the floor. Scented smoke rose in lazy waves and spirals.

 

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. The incense was the only luxury he allowed himself on a job. He'd tried to do without it but the comfort of an ally with a similar goal on a mission was denied him after he left the army and he needed something. Strange, the small things one took for granted. 

 

Pieces of a rifle and two handguns were spread around him. Along with a solvent bottle, a brush, and cleaning rods. The process of cleaning his weapons calmed him; the anxiety he felt before a mission crept in as always. He concentrated on dissolving it, like smoke into the air. He began to re-assemble the rifle; the pieces fitting into their place and clicking together in beautiful symmetry. Candlelight danced over the metal parts; the metal glowed as if it were on fire. He gave the barrel a final wipe and put the rifle down. He reached for a nearby bottle of sparkling water, caffeine or alcohol harmed a soldier's senses, and drank. 

 

Dark blue eyes looked at the small, cheap alarm clock on the battered table.

 

Twelve hours left.

 

 

~ To Be Continued ~

____________________

Prompt: 6.Hours


	13. Chapter 13

They picked up their witness from the safe house two hours before the court session was due. Seifer and his partner followed in their own car. He kept an eye on the cars in the street, the kind of people driving those cars, and any suspicious people standing on the streets leading to the courthouse. He was craning his neck and looking so hard, the shapes and colours started to blur after a while.

 

"Would you relax?" Trepe's irritated voice was too loud in the silent car, in Seifer's opinion anyway. "We'll get there soon enough."

 

"He's going to be there today. I know it." He relished the words.

 

Seifer concentrated on relaxing his grip on the steering wheel. Strange but he was pretty tense today; something beyond the usual heightened alertness of chasing a suspect or handling a big case. Maybe it was his foster mother's influence, but he could feel it in the air like invisible strings waiting to be struck. 

 

_If I didn't know better, I'd say it was a sense of destiny. Mom would laugh._

 

No, she wouldn't laugh. She'd merely smile her serene smile and say nothing. The image of her in his mind calmed him. He had to remain calm until the right moment. Soon their party reached the street behind the courthouse and the three cars parked near each other. The agents got down, their witness sandwiched between them. Trepe got down too and looked at him; Seifer locked his car's doors and nodded. They joined the other agents; a sea of blue and gray suits. He spared a minute to survey his surroundings. The courthouse blocked most of the view and except for a white van there were no other cars parked nearby or people walking about. There were a couple of buildings some distance away but they were too low to be used as a good vantage point.

 

_Where are you?_

 

He was watching them, Seifer was certain. He walked with the other agents and their increasingly agitated witness up the wide steps of the courthouse. Seifer took a good look at the witness; he hadn't cared enough to look at the guy's picture at the office beyond a cursory glance. The man was in his late forties, brown hair and eyes, average height, and wearing somewhat thick glasses. A normal, nondescript man you could pass by on the street any day without looking twice at him. Probably decided to bail once things got too complicated and bloody as they usually did if the Sparda family was involved. Seifer couldn't find any sympathy for a man whose greed outweighed his good judgment. 

 

It took him a moment to realise they were being held up by two men who were carrying a very long and wide glass pane; the workers were trying to tilt it sideways so it would pass through the building's narrow backdoor. Narrow for such a large pane that is. Seifer turned to Trepe; she met his gaze with the same thought in hers. They were exposed out here and they really needed to get the witness inside. Now.

 

He stepped toward Agent Johnson. Still the senior agent in charge of this case, unfortunately for Seifer. Johnson saw him and they exchanged a nod of semi-polite, mutual dislike. Seifer hadn't spoken to Johnson since that day at the office.

 

"We need to get him inside," he said with polite terseness.

 

Johnson pretended to look busy and turned away. He glanced at Seifer from the corner of his eye as if Seifer was beneath his notice. "We will. They're just workers bringing in the new window for the main hall; they're not a security risk. I've got it under control, Almasy."

 

Seifer gritted his teeth. He was about to argue when he felt it.

 

**_A displacement of air. Something small. A small projectile? Passing him by with such speed as to ruffle his hair near his right temple and leave a deafening echo in his ear._ **

 

A shrill woman's scream brought him back to real time. Seifer whipped around only to see their witness lying at the foot of the steps. His head had exploded, literally. Blood and pieces of his brain matter splattered against the two agents closest to him; one was already on his knees a few yards away, retching violently. Seifer looked for Trepe; it had been her screaming. He found her leaning on another agent. Her face was drained of blood and her eyes held dumb terror in their blue irises. Johnson of course was behind him, but judging from the lack of any sound he wasn't going to be any help either. It took only a few seconds for Seifer to see their current situation, though it felt like an hour had passed. A hot torrent of anger and frustration flooded him.

 

"Get me the SWAT team's captain! Where the fuck are they?!" He shouted at the nearest, conveniently positioned agent.

 

He gazed at the direction which the bullet would have come from. Now there was no witness and no case, but he was going to get his shooter. Seifer was going to pursue as soon as he got the SWAT captain on line. 

 

 

~ To Be Continued ~  
____________________

Prompt: 19.Him


	14. Chapter 14

It was over.

 

He blinked a few times to bring a bit of moisture back into his eye. He lowered the rifle; his shoulder could still feel its recoil, a low thrum in his bones. The analytical part of his mind said he was growing soft, out of practice, disgraceful. But his practice was ending lives and it was difficult to exercise it in peaceful times. In this country at least. There was always a war brewing somewhere in the world. He missed it sometimes; the sense of purpose the military had given him. Those were the dark days; days his mind remembered and was swallowed whole by a sorrow he couldn't articulate or explain.

 

_It's not the time for this._

 

He packed his rifle and its accessories into its case and canvas bag. It was time to get out of here; they were going to search for him and earlier he'd spotted the FBI's snipers and their positions. He took the stairs two at a time, balancing against the weight of the bag on his shoulder. He reached the building's backdoor and looked left and right for pursuit. There were police sirens in the distance but they'd be getting closer soon. The difficulties of escaping in broad daylight made themselves known yet again, especially since this wasn't a jungle, yet he'd had to take this job. Much as he tried to avoid becoming involved with people, there were times people found him and neither could let go. The complications of a human relationship, he reminded himself, were often more trouble than they were worth. He kept to back streets and side alleys, crouching behind parked cars and dumpsters when patrol cars were too close. At least they hadn't sent a helicopter out yet, that would make things even more difficult. He'd parked two cars in opposite directions and he needed to reach one of them. Fast. Stopping inside a building's doorway, he saw a police car pass, blue and red lights whirling and sirens screaming. He ran and ducked till he reached the parking lot near the docks. Sounds of operating machinery, people shouting orders and directions, and cargo being unloaded; the cacophony drifted on the air from the nearby harbour. Perfect for covering his escape. Just a little bit further till the drop point. 

 

Lungs burning, he stopped beside an old boarded-up shop. Ten minutes later, a white van with the logo 'Thalia's Windows' appeared at the end of the street; it drove in a leisurely fashion and stopped right in front him, blocking him from view. His gun was in his hand; he watched as the van's back doors opened and a burly man with the typical look of a thug jumped down. He handed the man his rifle bag and noticed how the man copied his own slow, careful movements. Not too stupid then, he decided. The man held the bag gingerly in his beefy hands as if afraid it would explode, which was absurd since the long rifle bag actually looked small in his big muscle-bound arms. 

 

"Boss said you should come with us," the thug said in heavily accented English.

 

"I can find my own way. Go"

 

The man looked at him then gave a one-shoulder shrug, rifle bag bumping against his shoulder, and clambered into the van.

 

He watched the van drive away and disappear into a traffic-filled street. He exhaled, some of the tension leaving him.

 

_Leon. Your name is Leon._

 

His identity re-asserted itself. Perhaps too soon, it wasn't over yet and he'd been trained to think of himself as Nemo or Lazarus. No past and no identity until the mission was finished and he was back at base. Now... now he was his own base and it was best to allow self-interest and survival to prevail.

 

Leon darted toward the harbour and its cargo containers. It was easy to disappear among the dockworkers and supervisors. He was just another guy in faded black jeans and shirt who was working or looking for work, of no consequence to anyone. He rounded the corner into a side street used for loading trucks; the noise level dropped almost dramatically. Leon stood leaning against a graffiti-decorated wall to catch his breath and let the ringing echo of near silence fade from his ears. He straightened and stepped out of the wall's sheltering shadows. The beat-up, navy blue pickup truck was waiting for him only ten meters down the street. He was close enough to see the white scratches on its blue paint when a voice shouted, "Stop right there! Put your hands up! NOW!"

 

He stopped and turned around slowly. Perhaps it had been too optimistic to think he'd be able to escape without backup, even as his instructor's gruff voice yelled in his mind about carelessness and slow reactions.

 

"I said don't move," a young man in a grey suit held a gun on him. FBI agent no doubt.

 

A green one, Leon thought. He kept his eyes on the gun and noticed it wavering slightly. Never shot a man intentionally either from the look of it. There was another agent with a cell phone in hand, already reporting their location.

 

Leon's body tensed, and then flowed into a languid pose.

 

The other agent, the older partner, shut his cell phone with one hand while the other flicked the safety off his gun.

 

_Amateurs_

 

He could see him more clearly now as he approached. Black hair peppered with iron grey, hard square jaw, and a grim look in his eyes that matched his stance. A stance speaking of too many years facing criminals to take any chances.

 

_The other one then._

 

He waited, hands raised, till they came closer. Leon held still for a single long heartbeat as he looked into the younger agent's eyes before erupting into action. He punched the man and snatched the gun from his nervous grip. The agent stumbled back, unintentionally giving his partner enough space to shoot Leon.

 

Leon turned to the other agent and kicked him, hard enough to break a few ribs and drive all the air from the man's lungs. He continued with a forward momentum that allowed him to reach the agent's wrist; he broke it. The man cried out and his gun fell from his hand.

 

The faint sound of the young agent getting up made Leon turn around and shoot him in the knee, effectively shattering his kneecap. The agent screamed and joined his older partner on the ground.

 

Perhaps he should have felt something for the young man. After all, they were of an age. He didn't. There was no place for innocence in this world, especially in men who held weapons in their hands. By his own estimation, the encounter had taken six minutes. Valuable time he needed to get away. He couldn't use the blue pickup; its description was likely known to every law officer in the city by now. He needed to double back and use his second escape route. Feeling the window of opportunity narrowing, he threw the agent's gun and ran. Back through the yard with its cargo containers. He kept the waters of the harbour on his right. Leon appeared from behind a bright orange container only to meet a fist in the face. The force of the blow and his own momentum sent him sprawling to the ground. He heard the distinct click of a gun. Leon quickly stood and looked at his attacker.

 

The sight made his body freeze and his eyes widen. He wiped the blood from his broken lip with the back of his hand. He almost smiled; a foreign concept to him. It was the blond FBI agent in the black suit. The one whose green eyes had glared at him through his rifle's scope as if he could see past the scope's lenses and into Leon's soul. 

 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Leon could hear himself laughing.

 

~ To Be Continued ~  
____________________

Prompt: 30.Sight

Nemo is a Latin word meaning "no man" or "no one".


	15. Chapter 15

They were locked into a static confrontation. If he moved, _he_ would shoot. If _he_ moved, he might escape.

 

Special Agent Seifer Almasy trained his gun on the suspect. His heart beat with the steady thunder of a war drum; out of proportion with the cause in his opinion. The suspect wasn't armed and Seifer had him right where he wanted him.

 

"So... you're our shooter," Seifer drawled and smirked. He knew the comment was stupid but he wanted a reaction. He gave the man a long hard look from head to toe. 5'8, dark brown hair, lean build, and god knows what his eye colour was. Not exactly the profile of a killer but Seifer saw something of the military in the man's easy yet ramrod straight stance.

 

_The stillness of a cornered animal about to pounce. Or maybe an unassuming predator._

 

Seifer decided he'd have to bite since the man just stood there and stared at him. The guy didn't raise his hands but he didn't move either. And in his black jeans and long-sleeved navy blue t-shirt, he didn't look particularly dangerous or out of place. Except of course, for the black gloves on his hands and the smeared black paint obscuring his face like a mask of shadows. The man was a dark figure against a backdrop of a shockingly blue sky and the multi-coloured cargo containers around them.

 

He tightened his grip on his gun and stepped closer.

 

 

~ To Be Continued ~  
____________________

Prompt: 35.Mask

Theme: 16. For some moments in life, there are no words.


	16. Chapter 16

Leon watched the blond FBI agent step closer, gun pointed at Leon's chest. He realised his folly now. If he hadn't wasted those precious minutes looking at this man and his pretty green eyes through his scope, he wouldn't be standing here now. 

 

_Stupid. Very stupid._

 

He supposed there was a first time for everything. Even now the attraction was there, the current situation with its antagonistic relationship, surge of adrenaline, and the possibility of imminent death just made it sharper. Leon could feel the physical attraction bite into him, hot and cold like being knifed with a good blade. His mind laughed at him. It really had been too long since he'd had good sex with someone. He watched as the agent came almost within arm's length.

 

Leon's eyes narrowed a little. Then the sound boomed behind him. 

 

~ To Be Continued ~  
____________________

Prompt: 4.Firsts


	17. Chapter 17

The sound boomed like thunder around them. Seifer wondered what the hell it was, some kind of foghorn? Before he could react, the man lunged at him. The gun was still between them but. He could - he _should_ \- fire but Seifer hesitated and they ended up in a tangle of limbs on the hard concrete ground. Seifer's gun went skittering somewhere to the left; he could hear it bang against a metallic surface. The two men exchanged blows, rolling until by virtue of superior body mass and weight, Seifer pinned the other guy under him. They were both panting. Seifer pinned the guy's wrists on either side of his head; he could feel the bones grinding under his hard grip. If the guy felt any pain, it didn't show on his face.

 

The man under him stopped struggling and just lay there. He returned Seifer's scrutiny of him.

 

Seifer could see the man's eyes clearly now. They were a strange blue-grey.

 

He was silent. There was something here; something almost tangible if he wanted to reach out and touch it. It hung in the air, sealing them in their own bubble of space away from the noise of the docks, ships, and the approaching police sirens.

 

The man under him seized that elusive, tangible thing and shocked Seifer to the core.

 

He kissed Seifer.

 

He went numb with shock. Nothing in his years at the Bureau had prepared him for what to do after being kissed by a suspected felon. Seifer lost time while he tried vehemently to deny this was happening. 

 

A flash of white and he instinctively recoiled.

 

The man pushed Seifer away; Seifer fell on his ass, hair, tie, and jacket askew. He blinked, wondering why everything in his sight was red. A touch to his face and his hand came away with blood coating it. As if in acknowledgement, pain hit his nervous system and he could feel it sear his face like spilt acid. He winced. God but it _hurt_.

 

Seifer looked up. The man was still there. They stared at one another across the small distance separating them. There was nothing to stop him from escaping. Seifer couldn't stop him and wasn't about to try when he saw the man was holding a thin stiletto in his hand. A low throb was building in Seifer's head; a migraine probably. He wiped his face again. He was bleeding a lot; was his face that badly cut?

 

Finally, the man said in a low, even voice, "Take care." Seifer wasn't sure if he really heard it or if it was his imagination. The man turned and ran the few yards to the harbor's waters. He jumped.

 

The FBI agent stood and walked on shaky legs to the edge. He peered at the murky waters below. A sense of crushing futility descended on him. Dammit but he felt so stupid. He should have waited for back up, he should have followed procedure, should have called for back up, shouldn't have ditched Trepe, should have shot the guy when he had the chance. The useless litany went on and on in his head like an annoying song with bad lyrics. So it took him a while to look up and realise the dull pounding in his head wasn't so much his migraine as it was the police helicopter now flying low and sweeping the river for their suspect.

 

 _Fuck_ , he cursed himself and ran a hand through his hair, smearing the pale golden strands with blood.

 

 

~ To Be Continued ~  
____________________

Prompt: 44.Thunder


	18. Chapter 18

Leon could see the FBI agent even through the dirty waters of the harbour. The image wavered, gaining and losing definition in the quality unique to liquids. There was a hint of irony here; the agent with Law and Justice on his side standing in the full light of the sun, while the escaping assassin hides in the sediment-filled waters of a dead river. He swam away in sure, silent strokes. The sound of a chopper came from above and soon someone would get the boats out to search. Time to put as much distance as possible between him and this state. Leon swam to a small pier and pulled himself out of the water. The car he'd parked was nearby, hidden under a dusty tarp. First though, he walked to a small equipment shed, and stripped. The duffle bag with a clean set of clothes was there and he pulled a grey t-shirt over his head. He used a small white towel to dry his hair. He still felt dirty; there was enough water left on his body to make the new pair of jeans he'd put on cling to his thighs and the cotton material of his t-shirt stick to his back. He pushed the tiny discomforts out of his mind; the dirty clothes were stuffed into his duffel bag. 

 

He walked over to the dark green van, parked behind a big yacht with a hole in its deck, pulled the tarp off, and threw the bag inside the car. Leon started the engine and took a moment to put on a black baseball cap to hide his eyes. He drove in a normal, sedate speed out of the yard, into a small street, then into a major one, and finally to the state highway. The van joined a long line of cars heading for the state's border.

 

A stray thought wandered to the forefront of his mind; his lips pressed together in remembrance. Leon hoped they'd meet again. He had a feeling the agent wasn't the type to let things go. And interesting enemies, especially of the agent's kind, were worth meeting again. 

 

~ To Be Continued ~  
____________________

Prompt: 12.Enemies


	19. Chapter 19

"Seifer, I'm-"

 

"Trepe, I swear if you don't stop apologizing I'm going to hit you. Woman or not," Seifer growled.

 

This earned Seifer a couple disapproving looks from the nurse tending him and everyone standing near them. Trepe was taken back but at least she stopped apologizing. Seifer knew who blew the operation and it wasn't her. 

 

He sighed. "Look, it was my fault okay? I went after him without back up and I let him get away."

 

Trepe flushed. "If I'd held myself better when the witness was shot, I would've been there to back you."

 

He just shook his head and winced. Ouch. The nurse didn't possess a delicate touch and she'd somehow managed to cover half his face with bandages. He knew he looked like an Egyptian mummy by now. And with the way his luck was going, the moment the nurse patted the last bandage into place was the one his mom walked in. In the white walls and bright lights of the hospital room, she presented a solemn, almost austere image in her long black dress. Even with one eye left, Seifer could see how her lovely face went pale with shock.

 

"Mom.. it looks worse than it really is. Really," he spoke hesitantly, trying not to wince because she knew he never called her mom unless he'd gotten himself in trouble and usually in spectacular fashion.

 

Edea Kramer stepped into the room. Her penchant for long flowing black dresses made her look slightly old-fashioned but the dress, like the accessories with exotic designs she wore, was from a designer label and lovingly showed her slim figure. Her long black hair, pale skin, and hazel eyes softened the look and gave her that otherworldly image which had been her trademark in her modelling days.

 

"Are you all right, Seifer?" She asked, even as she touched the side of his face and turned it so she could look.

 

"I'm fine."

 

"Only if you ignore the fact that he nearly got his face cut in half," the nurse helpfully supplied before leaving the room.

 

Seifer resisted the urge to turn around and glare, having only one eye was really inconvenient. He met Edea's worried gaze and knew he'd get a lecture later. She didn't approve of him becoming an FBI agent, especially when he preferred field duty to desk duty like Cid.

 

"Well, I suppose I'll drive you home after we get your medication. You'll stay home of course until the bandages come off and your injuries are gone," Edea said in a tone which mothers all over the world used and which wayward sons knew better than to argue with. She looked at the green and purple bruises covering his torso and Seifer quickly started buttoning his shirt. She turned on her high heels and exchanged pleasantries with Trepe and the other agents in the room. Seifer got down from the hospital bed he was perched on and held his jacket and tie in one hand. At that exact moment, his foster mother turned (he didn't know how she always managed to do that) to face him and nodded. She said goodbye to the others and preceded her son out of the room. Seifer threw an 'I'm so dead' look over his shoulder at Trepe; she smiled back and he was struck again by her beauty and her pretty blue eyes. The other guys just smirked at him and he had a feeling this tale would be all over the office by the time he returned, only exaggerated to the point of fiction. Having one's mom show up in front of one's colleagues didn't help in maintaining a macho image.

 

Nevertheless, Seifer hurried out of the room after Edea. 

 

~ To Be Continued ~  
____________________

Prompt: 17.Parents


	20. Chapter 20

The phone rang in an office furnished in a minimalist style with expensive furniture made of dark wood. The man who owned this office, including the building it was in, stood holding a cigarette in his right hand while gazing out the window through the half-open Venetian blinds. He contemplated his as yet small kingdom and took another drag from the cigarette before stepping toward the desk to answer the phone.

 

"Sparda speaking," the man said. His voice was a deep baritone. Sunlight coming through the blinds lit on his ash-blond hair.

 

"It's done," came the clipped words from the phone. Unlike Sparda's warm voice which caressed the ear, this speaker's voice was low and his tone was bare and to the point.

 

"Yes, thank you. It was beautifully done. I must say that I admire your professionalism."

 

"I'm glad you're satisfied," dryly said, "You have it with you?"

 

There was no reason to ask what 'it' was, especially when the phone might be tapped or a van with listening equipment might be parked across the street. It was paranoia but he preferred to err on the side of caution. "Yes, don't worry. I have it and it will be taken care of." Sparda glanced at the open case on his coffee table; a rifle lay inside it.

 

"Good." There was a moment's pause on the phone, "Tell Dante to be more careful in the future."

 

"Indeed, I will. Please accept my gratitude on behalf of my brother."

 

"There's no need. It's settled." The phone call ended with a decisive click.

 

Sparda looked at the phone in his hand before he put it back into its place. Normally he would be irritated at such behaviour but the man had done him a great service by keeping his impulsive brother out of a long term in prison. He wondered what kind of relationship existed between Dante and this man. Few men repaid their debts nowadays; fewer still did it by killing your enemy for you. He sat behind his desk and called his secretary. A knock on the door and she appeared; a blonde young thing in the silk blouse and short skirt so many secretaries wore. He enjoyed looking at her even though he never mixed work with pleasure.

 

"Yes, Mr. Sparda?" She had a lovely high, feminine voice. It went well with her petite figure and delicate looks.

 

"Call my lawyer and tell him I want the charges against my brother dropped as soon as possible." A bit of steel entered his voice.

 

His secretary blushed a little and stammered a reply; the door closed behind her with a soft click. He leaned back in his leather armchair. She really was a pretty ornament. Virgil Sparda turned his chair to look at the coffee table and the case resting on it. He had plans for this city and his proper place in it. Once Dante got out, he'd have to ask him about the mysterious man on the phone. Virgil could use a man like that. One whose lethal nature was tempered by discipline and a strong sense of honour. 

 

~ To Be Continued ~  
____________________

Prompt: 76.Secrets


	21. Chapter 21

A pale leg moved across the bed before it found the edge and slid down to touch the floor; it was soon joined by another leg and foot.

 

"Stay the night."

 

The invitation came from the man still sprawled on the bed. He reached over to touch the back of the other man; his bed partner arched against his touch, there was an appealing innocence in that involuntary reaction and he'd rather the man stayed so they could have another go at it. He didn't ask about the faded scars on the man's back. They'd agreed to have sex last night, nothing else. But he wondered what kind of life this young man lived to have such harrowing scars. There were two he recognized as bullet wounds, one scar ran in a thin diagonal line across a shoulder and was without doubt the result of a knife slash, another two lines across the back looked suspiciously like the man had been whipped or hit with a belt and its buckle had left its mark. The young man had the body of one whose childhood was spent in the streets or so he'd guess if he didn't look into the eyes... the eyes were colder and harder than that.

 

Those same eyes turned to look at him.

 

"You're not in a hurry to leave are you?" He sat up and wrapped his arms around the man from behind; he could feel the slender body tense in his hold before it relaxed a fraction. Oh yeah, this one had stories to tell.

 

The sex was great. It had been a while since he'd found a partner content to simply follow his lead. If he could find a woman this undemanding, he'd marry her. It amused him to no end that this pretty boy wasn't afraid of him considering the difference in height and weight between them. Picking up strangers in bars was risky, especially if you were looking to bottom but the young man had walked into the bar without a care or a glance at its inhabitants and with a face so pretty he'd put most women to shame. That kind of calculated bravado was attractive and he knew he had to have him. Now though, with these scars clear under the room's light, maybe it wasn't an act. The guy could probably take care of himself; but fuck, take him out of those black leathers he wore and he really looked like a boy, pretty and harmless. Not that he would be making such a mistake.

 

"It's still early." He kissed the nearest shoulder. "I thought we'd have another round later."

 

The young man just looked at the space of carpet between his feet. "All right," he said softly. Those blue-grey eyes turned to look at him. "Do you have new sheets?"

 

He laughed; a short loud bark. Figured the boy would be one of those obsessed with cleanliness. He didn't mind it this time; the boy was such a nice piece of ass. "I guess we did make a mess. There are fresh sheets in the closet. Help yourself."

 

* * *

 

Leon watched the man rise from the bed and head to the bathroom, unselfconscious about his nudity. But then he had nothing to be ashamed of, he obviously spent time in a gym. Leon could appreciate a toned body in a man likely to be in his early forties. Except for the blond hair, this man didn't resemble the one Leon left behind. He hadn't wanted an exact copy, only someone with enough physical similarities to satisfy his body's hunger. Leon was glad he'd found this man quickly, looking for partners was a boring chore and he knew he was lacking in many of the social cues and manners to successfully manage any of the pseudo mating dances he'd witnessed often. That the man happened to own the bar Leon walked into was fortunate, all they had to do was disappear upstairs into the man's apartment.

 

He wondered if the FBI agent would look like this man in ten or fifteen years. The thought was a little ridiculous and he dismissed it from his mind. He wrapped a sheet around his waist and stepped toward the large windows making up nearly an entire wall of the bedroom. The apartment was very nice, spacious and with good furniture in dark, masculine colours. Leon wondered if running a bar was a good business or if the man did something else on the side. He drew the curtains and gazed at the dots and blurs of coloured light passing in the street below. He found himself wondering if the cut on the agent's face would scar; sex often put him in a philosophical mood. Leon smiled at his reflection on the glass. He hoped it did scar; he wanted the man to remember him.

 

Beyond the windows' glassy surface, lightning flashed. A storm was coming. 

 

~ To Be Continued ~  
____________________

Prompt: 43. Lightning


	22. Chapter 22

Beyond the window's glassy surface, lightning flashed. A storm was coming.

 

It might rain, Seifer thought. That would be a pleasant change; the weather was too dry this year.

 

The room he stood in was his old room in the Kramer's' house. Seifer looked around; he hadn't seen it since he left to stay at the university's dorms. He wasn't the kind of person to remember old times or analyse them. The past was the past and a man couldn't let himself be held back by excess baggage. But Seifer could still remember the sheer delight he felt at having his own personal space and the promise it wouldn't be invaded without his permission. It had been a big change from the orphanage and its bleak days. He couldn't remember much from that time and he preferred it that way. Subconscious memory blocking was useful when your memories were mostly of hunger, cold, and indifference. 

 

Seifer leaned against the window and looked at his room. The furniture was mostly birch wood and the walls were stuck with things he'd pinned on them. One wall had a large stylised map of Middle Earth, another wall had a generic painting of two knights sparring in a forest glade. The third wall had a picture of a beautiful woman with long flowing blonde hair, dressed in a medieval gown with billowing sleeves. He'd bought that at some artist fair Edea took him to. Seeing the room's decor, Seifer tried not to wince. It wasn't difficult to see what he'd wanted as a kid; the pattern was there. He'd played ball and video games like other boys his age, but secretly the stories read to him about King Arthur and his knights were the ones that had the strongest hold on his heart. He was probably the only nine years old boy whose mom read him _Macbeth_ and _Tristan &Isolde_ as bedtime stories.

 

_Explains why I do what I do. I just had to dream big._

 

A wry smile made Seifer's mouth twitch. He planned on never telling anyone about his childhood or admitting anyone into this room. Fortunately most people shut up as soon as they knew he was adopted. It worked wonders on women too, especially his dates. Seifer smirked. He touched his face and the smile dropped. The scar ran in a diagonal line from left to right across his face, across his brow and the bridge of his nose. It didn't hurt anymore and looking at it he knew the doctor was right; he was lucky he hadn't lost an eye or parts of his nose or mouth.

 

Edea's voice came from downstairs calling him to dinner. 

 

Seifer frowned at nothing in particular, a sense of unease and anger flowed and ebbed through him, the same feeling he kept having since that day at the docks.

 

Edea's voice rose again. Edea who called him her 'white knight' when he'd been a boy, she still teased him with it from time to time. Seifer shoved his hands into his jeans' pockets and walked to the door. He gave the room a last look over his shoulder and closed its door. The sound of his footsteps descending the stairs was deep and measured, like intentions firmly planted into the earth to grow.

 

_Maybe it's fucking time you stopped daydreaming Almasy and started doing your job._

 

Anger trailed the man like smoke without a visible fire. Seifer though, knew its cause and every time he remembered... the flame burned brighter.

 

 

~ To Be Continued ~  
____________________

Prompt: 66. Anger

 

Author's Note: This marks the end of the first arc. Over 10,000 words and the story's barely begun. I'm still amazed I wrote so much on one story over the period of two months.


	23. Chapter 23

One finger pushed between the blinds creating a small gap to look at the bullpen beyond. Among the many desks with agents milling about or sitting, there was one blond head bent over its desk, busy typing on a keyboard.

 

"What do you think?"

 

"I'm surprised it lasted this long. I expected it to blow over by now. It's been five months after all." The finger dropped and the blinds snapped back into place. The man turned to face his old friend and boss.

 

Assistant Director Kramer sat behind his impressive bureau, frowning. His appearance was that of a portly, unassuming man. He was somewhat short with thinning brown hair and slate blue eyes peeking from behind a pair of glasses. Cedric Kramer looked more like someone's kind, bookish uncle than an AD in charge of the regional FBI office. This was probably the reason he was fondly nicknamed "The Headmaster" by his friends and his agents. The man standing near the blinds was his complete opposite. Ex-army, with a head full of grey and a body full of scars to prove it, Auron McKenzie looked almost too savage to be an FBI agent. The thin scar across his right eye only strengthened that image.

 

"Edea is worried?" Auron asked.

 

Kramer smiled at him. "No, _I_ am." He leaned back in his chair and continued; "I've known Seifer since he was a boy. And while he's a wilful brat who grew up into a somewhat reckless young man, I've never known him to show the kind of drive and dedication to duty he's been exhibiting these last few months."

 

"You're complaining because the boy stopped being a lazy ass?" Auron chuckled and stepped closer to seat himself on one of the AD's very comfortable leather sofas. Kramer gave him a disappointed, fatherly look and Auron had to remind himself not to roll his eyes. Kramer was often too soft on the kids.

 

"I knew he'd make a good agent if he put his mind to it. He's got what it takes, maybe more. He just lacked the discipline necessary to focus it." Auron gave his friend a pointed look. "At least now you won't be accused of favoritism."

 

The frown on Kramer's forehead deepened; lines appeared on his face showing the weight of his responsibilities and belying his usual jovial nature.

 

"You know the only strings I pulled were to have Seifer assigned here. He passed the academy, with flying colours may I add?, on his own merits." Kramer had thought it would make Edea happy to have the boy close by and it did. But it also resulted in sly comments and not-so-subtle hints that Seifer hadn't really earned his place in the FBI, that his foster father gave it to him.

 

"You and me know that, Kramer. But the kids have to sort it out on their own," Auron said, sensibly enough.

 

Kramer drummed his fingers on the bureau's polished, wooden surface. "I'm simply concerned that he might be a little... overzealous. He hasn't been the same since that case in April," he maintained.

 

"He needed to be taken down anyways. That ego of his was bound to get him in trouble. Now he's got a reminder on his face every morning he looks in a mirror to keep him firmly on the ground."

 

"Edea was upset about the scar."

 

An inelegant snort. "Better a small scar than a leg or an arm. Or a coffin," Auron added as an afterthought.

 

There was nothing Kramer could say after that.

 

~ To Be Continued ~  
____________________

Prompt: 82. Work

Author's Note: Beginning of Arc.2, while Auron's last name comes from his English voice actor.


	24. Chapter 24

Leon was fond of Thailand. As far as any tourist country went it wasn't a bad place to hide. His fondness lay perhaps in the country's unchanging nature. Every year more buildings sprung up, more people moved in to populate once empty areas; noisy Civilization crept in but the general atmosphere of the country remained familiar like an old, seldom met friend.

 

_"People make a land, not monuments. Remember that. If you can understand the way of the human mind, you'll have the key to succeed in every mission even if the odds and elements are against you."_

 

That had been one of countless lessons Leon had itched into him by her. She had carefully, painfully, sculpted him into her own private vision of perfection. _"A living, thinking weapon."_ It was her goal and he had heard it toted like a war banner every time a superior or work colleague doubted her or her project..... Strange, Leon mused. A breeze ruffled his hair, bringing with it the sharp scent of the sea. He hadn't thought of the woman in a long time. He left it all behind when the whole matter ended. Was he wondering perhaps what she would say about his current distraction? He smiled; a hard edge of cynicism gleamed in his eyes. Oh, she'd skin him alive if she knew. For better or worse the woman had been the only parental figure Leon had while growing up, and her opinion of 'romantic entanglements' had an emphasis on the latter part, namely _none_. 

 

He moved a little, stretching his legs and back muscles. Before him, the sun was setting. Rich vermilion and purple spread across a horizon framed by green hills and a calm, sparkling sea. It seemed almost sacrilege to think of those times in this place, which looked like paradise. Within moments, the sky darkened and night fell upon the world. The flashes of lightning Leon saw all evening became more frequent, white streaks whipping the sky. The wind blew faster and he could see lead grey clouds roll inland. There would be another storm tonight. He leaned into the cold wind and it stole the warmth from his face. The rain season wasn't a time for tourists in Thailand, much less for visiting its islands in the south. Yet, sitting on a deserted beach in Phuket made Leon close his eyes and smile. A rare smile no one would see since most sensible people headed indoors to take shelter from the rain. As if on cue, a heavy drop of cold rain hit Leon's forehead. He stood and brushed the sand off his t-shirt and blue shorts. The sky was now almost black with rain clouds and thunder rumbled above, loud enough to deafen him.

 

 _"'Squall.' I gave you that name. My precious little storm."_

 

Years later, he still remembered the mixed feelings of fear, bitter resentment, and strong revulsion he'd experienced as she cradled his then small face in her hands; her nails long, perfect, and shockingly red on his cheeks. How ominous, he thought, that those memories would surface now. Rain fell in full force and it hit Leon like a thousand needles wanting to pierce his body. He shook his head, water flying in every direction, and walked to his hotel. His feet sank with every step in the wet sand, sand which threatened to turn into mud soon. 

 

At the door of the small hotel, the young man minding the counter scowled at Leon. No doubt cursing the insanity of foreigners who stayed out in the rain and trailed water and sand into the place. Out of the corner of his eye, Leon glimpsed a small figure darting from a side door and he reminded himself she was harmless. The old woman, probably the one who cleaned the rooms here, held a large towel in her hands and was trying to dry Leon's hair and body at the same time. An impossible feat not only because of the single towel but also because her head barely reached his chest, and he knew he wasn't that tall himself. He allowed her to admonish in soft tones and rapid words spoken in a language he couldn't understand. The old woman tsked and pushed him toward his room. Leon's mouth twisted into a wry expression. He supposed he should be grateful there was such good room service at this cheap hotel. He spent a minute examining the door before opening it. It seemed no one had entered, nothing was disturbed or out of place. Either that or they were very good at it. He glanced into the bathroom; it was empty. 

 

He took off his shirt and threw it on the floor and used the towel to dry his hair. On the bed, his cell phone was blinking. When he was somewhat dry, he sat on the too soft bed and checked the phone's messages. Nothing out of the ordinary in the text; a few even teased his interest. The room was pitch black but he didn't open the lights. Next week he was returning to the US. The thought brought a sharp prick of anticipation into his rain-chilled body. 

 

~ To Be Continued ~  
____________________

Prompt: 50. Vacation


	25. Chapter 25

They were looking for leads and Agent Almasy apparently wasn't taking no for an answer. As his partner, Trepe knew their current solve rate was high and that it reflected well on them both. However, she was experiencing a niggling sense of anxiety and dread from Seifer's recent behaviour. He was ploughing through cases and suspects the way a horse galloped across an open field. She wished she could accuse him of catching the wrong suspect or neglecting some vital piece of information. It was getting to the point where she wished he'd make a mistake if it would slow him down. Trepe had the feeling he was looking for something specific; a bloodhound desiring one particular prey. She watched him threaten a man in a low voice while his hands kept moving in sudden, almost violent gestures; he seemed to barely restrain himself from hitting the guy.

 

"Hey! Hey! Look, I told you I don't know anything," the man finally shouted. He kept pushing his hair back in nervous, compulsive jerks.

 

"Excuse me if I don't believe you, Rick. Now one last time. I know Sparda's planning something big and I want to know what."

 

"Shit, man. Think I'm crazy? I'm not talkin 'bout Sparda. Fastest way to get killed, messy like."

 

Trepe saw Seifer smile and duck his head; if it had been another setting, she might have thought him shy. She could predict his next move though and she wasn't disappointed. Seifer half turned, as if moving away, then punched the man's stomach. Maybe hard enough to crack his ribs. Her mouth pressed itself into a thin line. Standing in a dirty alley while her partner beat a guy wasn't her idea of police work.

 

The man doubled over and wheezed, "Police..b-brutality!"

 

Seifer stepped back from the man and straightened his necktie. "There's no such thing as police brutality. You've spent enough time in and out of prison to know that."

 

The casual way Seifer said it made Trepe frown. She knew the man had a long history of petty theft and drug abuse, and recently he'd moved to selling drugs, but she didn't like how Seifer seemed to take it as an excuse to abuse the man.

 

_Your partner's a bully with an ego bigger than his head can contain and you wish you could say you didn't suspect it but you did. Oh and how about the fact he insists on using your last name even though you've been paired together for over 5 months now._

 

The blonde woman tried not to sigh. Almasy never wanted her as a partner; he was just waiting for his old partner to be fit for duty. Trepe focused on him again and it seemed he'd finally forced the information he wanted from the man. Seifer straightened from his crouch and nodded at her. They walked out of the alley together. She looked over her shoulder and saw their 'informant' lying face first on the ground moaning piteously. Well, at least his clothes were dirty to begin with. 

 

The agents walked and got into the car; Seifer started the engine; a satisfied smile on his face.

 

"If you do something like that again, I'll report you to Internal Affairs." Trepe was a little surprised at how calm and steady her voice was. She turned to look at Seifer; he met her gaze with a mixture of amusement and irritation on his face. They both knew if she reported him because of something so negligent as roughing up a low-life snitch, she'd be a pariah and no one would want to be her partner afterwards.

 

"Well whaddya know. The poodle has teeth." Seifer smirked, looking like an insolent schoolboy.

 

"What did you say? How dare you!" Trepe was ready to give him a piece of her mind when he suddenly laughed. His laughter was so loud and infectious; she couldn't muster up enough anger. But she won't be forgetting that remark any time soon.

 

He drove, navigating through the evening traffic. The tense mood dissipated for the moment. She reminded herself that there would likely be more confrontations between them in the near future. They weren't partners no matter what AD Kramer said and their personalities clashed too much for them to work together in an effective manner.

 

Sunlight on the windshield of a passing car made Trepe blink. She felt tired and depressed at the way her first work opportunity outside of Quantico was turning out.

 

_I just hope we both survive this without one of us strangling the other out of sheer frustration._

 

Meanwhile, Agent Almasy drove on oblivious to his so-called partner's thoughts. 

 

~ To Be Continued ~  
____________________

Prompt: 33. Too much


	26. Chapter 26

Airports in general are full of impatient people. People waiting for a flight, people waiting for their friends or family, and people just arriving from some destination and eager to be on their way home or to a hotel. Leon viewed it all through his sunglasses' dark lenses. The noise level in an airport always gave him a headache, but this time his stomach wanted food so he lingered at a McDonald's instead of hurrying out of Kennedy airport. He took another sip from his coke and pondered his choices. He had four offers waiting for his acceptance. Two were low-key assassinations, one was an offer from the Army for support on a classified mission, and the last was from an old 'friend'. He frowned at his French fries; Dante always had more courage than common sense but his recklessness served him well so far. One couldn't pursue a criminal career if one was hesitant. His older brother was no fool either; Leon thought Virgil Sparda could go far if circumstances were right.

 

He put a piece of fries in his mouth. The question was whether he wanted to help the elder Sparda build his little empire. Leon had had enough of megalomaniacs and power hungry control freaks. Did he really want to involve himself with another?

 

A woman passed in front of his table; her children and their luggage trailing behind her. A businessman spoke harshly into his cell phone while his coat kept slipping off his arm. A couple, newlyweds from their constant touching and giggling, hurried to their gate.

 

Blue-grey eyes saw it all, sorting visual information and dismissing the irrelevant parts.

 

_That's in the past. Matters are different now. _You're_ different. And the incentive is there, to see that FBI agent again._

 

Leon pushed his chair back without a sound and carried his backpack. He was going to book a flight to see Sparda... and hope he wasn't making an irrevocable mistake.

 

 

~ To Be Continued ~  
____________________

Prompt: 39. Food


	27. Chapter 27

Seifer was engrossed in discussing the details of a new case with Trepe when the phone rang. He glared at it and answered with a gruff, "Almasy."

 

The sweet voice on the other end melted his irritation away completely. He leaned back in his chair and smiled in what he was sure was a stupid, goofy expression. His partner raised her eyebrows, which made her blue eyes look big and pretty.

 

_Down, boy. Concentrate on one girl at a time._

 

"What? No, of course not. You know I missed you. I always do when you go on those trips. Yeah, me too. Now? Sure, I'll meet you at Lucille in an hour. Bye." He put the receiver down and reached for his jacket and car keys.

 

"Almasy? The case?" Trepe waved the folder at him. She wondered at the reason behind his visit to one of the most exclusive restaurants in town.

 

"Later, Trepe. I've got a hot date." He flashed her a smile and hurried to the door and the elevators beyond.

 

Trepe stared at his retreating back. She hadn't heard anything about Seifer and a steady girlfriend; that was her impression of his voice and body language during the phone call. She waved the case folder back and forth, hitting her own knee, lost in speculations when a shrill voice exploded in her ear. Trepe turned to look at the source; it was the petite secretary from the second floor, the one with the strange name.

 

"Hey Felicia! Seifer not here today?" The petite brunette bounced on her feet and smiled; a smile bright enough to blind most people.

 

The tide of cheer and goodwill was infectious and Trepe found herself smiling at the young woman. "He just left. Said he had a hot date."

 

"Ooh! I heard she was coming back. She must have called him as soon as she landed. That's so romantic!" 

 

"Um... who called him, Selphie?"

 

Selphie gaped at her. "You mean you don't know?!" Then quickly added, "I forgot you're new here. Seifer's girlfriend? She's _Rinoa Heartilly!_ "

 

Trepe blinked. "Oh.. I guess no one mentioned it to me."

 

"I guess not. The guys are all jealous and half the girls are too, because of Seifer in the latter case. Not that they all tell me about it or anything." Selphie went on; a stream of continuous chatter.

 

Trepe glanced at her reflection on the nearby pc monitor; its dark glass made her look wan and bland. Remembering the thousand watt smile Seifer gave her, she wanted to sigh. A world-class model? No, she couldn't compete with that. 

 

~ To Be Continued ~  
____________________

Prompt: 87. Heart


	28. Chapter 28

An old building. An apartment in it kept in good condition for a purpose; the air inside was stale and heavy with dust even if the furniture was somewhat clean. It was too bad he couldn't open the window. He'd been waiting for over an hour when the lock on the front door clicked and turned. Leon shifted his feet so his body was angled slightly to the right, facing the door. The door swung open and Leon's eyes met those of Dante Sparda. 

 

"Hey, you're already here," Dante greeted him and headed over as if to hug him. Leon side-stepped him and the blond man pouted in an exaggerated manner. 

 

"You're no fun," Dante smirked and reached into his red leather jacket for a cigarette. On anyone else red leather in such a bright shade would look cheap and tacky, but Dante had a surfeit of charisma and a devil-may-care attitude which made him look intimidating yet irresistible. It had been enough to draw even Leon's interest at the time.

 

The third man in the room stood in sharp contrast fashion-wise. Dante's older brother Virgil wore an expertly cut dark blue suit, so dark it was almost black, and a silver tie. The tie had a small silver pin in the shape of a broad sword. Leon wondered at the symbolism; why a broad sword instead of the more generic rapier?

 

"It's been a while, Mr. Leon," Virgil Sparda began. 

 

"It's just Leon."

 

The positions of the men in the room was strategic. Dante stood near the door, an almost equal distance between his brother and Leon. A table and an armchair lay between Leon and the brothers. Virgil sat on a battered old sofa facing Leon, while Leon faced him from across the room, leaning on a wall. It wasn't _quite_ hostile but the tension was there like a fourth entity, invisible and acutely felt.

 

"Very well. Let's get down to business." The elder Sparda waited for a response from Leon. When none was forthcoming, he began to talk.

 

Leon listened. It was apparent the man had done well for himself. Perhaps even using his brother's arrest and acquittal as a message to certain parties. Decisive action, in small prudent quantities, was always effective and the message it sent to the criminal community was implicitly understood. As Leon listened, a part of him was amused at how well Virgil Sparda had done. There seemed to be no illegal activity that Virgil didn't have his hand in to some extent. All this achieved by the removal of two witnesses. It was either tactical brilliance or a liberal amount of good fortune.

 

"No drugs?" Leon asked; his mild interjection surprised the man and he stumbled in his speech.

 

"No drugs, no." Virgil smiled politely at Leon; a bitter chill lurking in the depths of his light blue eyes.

 

He noted the tense shoulders and defensive posture. Leon kept his eyes on Virgil but he could feel the hostility emanating from Dante as well. Hurt one and the other would retaliate. Leon once had that kind of partnership and its loss left a gaping hole in him that had yet to heal. 

 

"To be completely honest, what I really need is a man to take charge. Someone capable of coordinating my shipments and deliveries, someone who can train my men to do it and do it well."

 

Leon raised an eyebrow.

 

Virgil chuckled. "Yes, I have a few men who can do it, but I don't trust them. A modicum of trust is necessary in my business."

 

At the door, Dante lit another cigarette and smiled.

 

_Ah, so that's where it came from._

 

A brief interlude passed before Leon straightened and said, "Let's say I agree for now. I want this amount deposited in this account." He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket, slowly, and stepped toward Virgil. A black-gloved hand placed the paper on the table. "I'll agree to a short term contract of six months until I train my replacement. I have a few conditions. First, I'll train and pick the men as I see fit. Second, I won't kill anyone for you. If a problem arises and necessitates it, you'll have to deal with it yourself. Agreed?"

 

From this close distance, Leon could see his blunt approach startled the elder Sparda. But then Virgil Sparda had been a lawyer early on; no doubt intricate word games and layered meanings were more to his style. Leon disliked such power games. He'd been a pawn on someone's chess board for most of his life and the knowledge and experience was unpleasant in the extreme.

 

Virgil subjected him to a long, thorough look. "Agreed," he added a lawyer's solemn gravity to the single word.

 

"There's a number on the paper. Contact me when you're ready." 

 

Leon stepped around the table, avoided Dante's searching look, and left before more speech was necessary.

 

~ To Be Continued ~  
____________________

Prompt: 14. Strangers


	29. Chapter 29

Virgil Sparda reached into the inner pocket of his suit for his cigarette case.

 

"So that was 'Leon'." He lit a cigarette and looked at his brother. "Such a cold man. I can't believe you slept with him."

 

Dante was finishing his second cigarette, "It was just the one time. I saved his neck from a gang of bullies and he offered to pay me back. Didn't think he'd take me seriously when I told him I wanted to fuck him." Broad shoulders, encased in red leather, shrugged eloquently.

 

"A one-night stand and he came to take care of a problem when I called? You must have left a good impression." Virgil couldn't help the heavy sarcasm imbuing his voice. This sort of reckless stupidity was just the thing Dante did on a regular basis. It was a wonder his young brother had made it to thirty.

 

Dante shrugged again. "He's not a bad guy."

 

"And he must have left an impression on _you_ if you told me to call him and ask him to kill a man for you. It must have been a memorable night."

 

No response. Dante affected boredom.

 

Virgil resisted the overwhelming urge to hit him. There would be no explanation coming and he knew better than to ask. For all that they were twins, their backgrounds and personalities were markedly different. Dante had grown up being shuffled from one foster family to another until he finally ran away. He did, however, possess one trait Virgil didn't; the ability to inspire loyalty and make people care. It seemed to work even on cold-hearted assassins. Perhaps that kind of feel for people had to be acquired by a life on the streets and among its gangs, Virgil mused, though he fervently wished he could have spared his brother that kind of childhood. 

 

"I'd call him a friend even if he doesn't think I'm one," Dante finally spoke. "We finished here?" He flicked the cigarette butt on the floor and stepped on it.

 

The elder Sparda stood and brushed dust from his suit; the sofa he sat on had a fine layer of it. Dante turned from the door to let him pass and they left the small apartment together. While he waited for Dante to bring the car around, Virgil thought of the man who called himself Leon. An assassin... and with a military background no doubt. Dead eyes set in a pale face, black jeans, black leather jacket, black gloves. The details flickered through his mind. He was not a man used to being intimidated but something other than the man's profession made Virgil wary. He would have to deal carefully with a man like Leon. If a small thing like a night of sex was enough to inspire a bit of affection and make the man kill, anger or hatred would make him doubly lethal. A moody assassin was too hazardous for his taste. 

 

Virgil sighed, feeling older than his years for a moment. Well, only time would tell. 

 

~ To Be Continued ~  
____________________

Prompt: 11. Friends


	30. Chapter 30

_Lucille_ was one of those overly expensive, overrated restaurants with weird looking chairs and tables and copious amounts of flower arrangements. The place looked like a florist but was without question the most fashionable setting for lovers in town. Seifer wouldn't set foot in it by choice but unfortunately for him Rinoa loved it. He checked the way he looked in his car's mirror before getting down and locking the car.

 

He gave his name to the receptionist at the entrance, and that feature still amazed him, and she checked his name and escorted him inside to the table where his princess was seated. Seifer leaned down to kiss Rinoa's cheek, "How's my princess?" He asked as he pulled a chair and sat down. Rinoa smiled warmly at him. She looked lovely in a short, strapless pearl white dress. A dress with such a simple and plain design that only a woman's beauty and poise could elevate it to something special; Rinoa made it look sublime on her.

 

"I'm fine. Milan was incredibly boring without you." She reached to touch his hand; his own hand met her halfway.

 

"I saw your picture in one of those fashion magazines last week. You looked beautiful." 

 

She blushed and giggled like a schoolgirl. God but he _had_ missed her. Even with the general clumsiness, occasional whining, and unbelievable naiveté. He supposed he might be in love with her if he wasn't too much of a realist to admit it.

 

"You always say that," Rinoa demurred but the rosy glow on her cheeks betrayed her pleasure.

 

"'Cause it's true."

 

Rinoa pouted like a five year old. "You're not just saying that because I'm a model?" There was something like real worry in her pretty brown eyes.

 

"As someone who picks up after you, I can definitely say it's not just your pretty face I like," he said truthfully. This was part of what he admired in her. Unlike other women, Rinoa seemed more fazed by her looks than proud. It made her more kind and humble than the average super model and Seifer knew it had to be a factor in her popularity among both sexes.

 

Reassured for the moment, Rinoa cheered up and they proceeded to order from the menu with its foreign language dishes and ridiculous prices. It was a pleasant time spent by both parties. Rinoa inundated him with details of her recent fashion show, the latest gossip on her fellow models, and the most melodramatic temper tantrums thrown by world famous designers when things didn't go their way. Seifer sat and let it all wash over him, musing that he had to be the only FBI agent so well informed on the going-ons of the fashion world. Watching her giggle and complain, laugh and gesture, was a breath of fresh air in his life. Her world was so different from his that they might as well be living on different planets. He wondered if it wasn't the reason he liked her so much. None of the ugliness in his world touched her and he prayed it never would. The sarcastic side of his mind noted her busy work schedule and her absence for months at a time on modelling assignments.

 

_You like her because she's different. Because she's easy on the eyes and doesn't stick around or demand much of you._

 

He ignored the implications of that thought, refusing to feel guilty and spoil their evening together. Seifer raised his glass, sipped the fine wine, and smiled at his girlfriend.

 

~ To Be Continued ~  
____________________

Prompt: 9. Months


	31. Chapter 31

Another day gone, another new day. He didn't have a clue what to do with himself. There were only so many things to clean and organize in a one-room apartment, if he was going to call it that. He had friends but most were still on tour so he was a little surprised, and wary, to hear the door buzz. The sharp noise cut through his early morning solitude with the ease of a particularly good blade. He hesitated but reminded himself that he was back in civilization now and no one hated him enough to risk showing up on his doorstep in broad daylight. Not Americans anyway. Slipping a long, thin knife into his left hand, he slowly opened the door with the other.

 

"Hello, Ronso."

 

The voice was low and soft, yet there was no mistaking the steel hidden beneath. For a moment he thought he'd imagined it, until the door went wide open and he looked into those intense eyes.

 

" _Shiva_?"

 

"Can I come in?"

 

"Yeah.. Sure." He backed away, suddenly feeling big and awkward compared to the other man's fluid grace.

 

"I brought beer." The man walked in and placed a plastic bag on the table.

 

"You don't drink beer," Ronso said, feeling bewildered.

 

"No, but you do."

 

Ronso realised that he didn't close the door yet; he hit it with the back of his hand and it banged shut. He stared at the man who'd seated himself in the apartment’s lone chair. What did you say to a man you hadn't seen in years and who decided to show up one day? Damned if he knew. Beer first, he told himself. Opening the crinkly plastic bag resulted in the discovery of imported beer bottles; his favourite label, condensation drops adorned the dark brown bottles.

 

"You remember." Ronso grinned and opened one bottle.

 

A nod from the other man.

 

The past came back to Ronso with all the comforting pain and familiarity of an old friend; the most prominent memory of his visitor being the deafening silences that accompanied him. The man seemed to wrap that void around him like battle armour. The silences never bothered Ronso; it was often good to have one quiet guy around, especially in a combat zone. But he knew the other men in his unit kept a certain distance between themselves and the one nicknamed _Shiva_. No one was stupid enough to go and piss off a sniper of that calibre but it was accepted wisdom that snipers were men apart. 

 

Lying low for hours on end for the chance to fire a single shot at an elusive target... it does something to a man, Ronso thought.

 

"So... what brings you here? I know it's not my pretty face." He set the bottle down on the table's scarred surface. 

 

~ To Be Continued ~  
____________________

Prompt: 40. Drink


	32. Chapter 32

The explanation was short and straight to the point in the manner both men were used to. Ronso looked at the man named Leon Sierra, more commonly known in some circles as _Shiva_.

 

"What do you think?" Sierra asked after a short period of silence.

 

Ronso stared at him. "It's a good offer but it's not your style." His eyes narrowed on Sierra's face. "What's in it for you?"

 

"A lot of money." The answer was firm but also lacking.

 

The older man twisted the cap off another bottle and drank; the beer made him feel better even if it was becoming warm. He held the bottle between his knees and looked up at Sierra. 

 

"Come on. We're not best buddies but I know enough to know money can't buy you. You're not that kinda man." 

 

Sierra smiled; a strange, brittle gentleness in those dark blue eyes. He asked, coolly unconcerned, "Are you saying I'm a patriot, Ronso?"

 

"I'm saying you play by your own rules and God help anyone who thinks otherwise." Ronso grinned. "So what are you really after?" He watched Sierra walk to the wall with the window and lean back against it. The man gazed at the street below. Ronso noticed the defensive position and waited.

 

"Let's say I'm looking for someone and Sparda is the best way to reach him." Sierra then looked at the TV.

 

Ronso tensed then cursed himself for it. On top of the small TV stood a plastic picture frame, its bright pink colour screamed its sentimental value in the shitty apartment. Sierra walked to the TV and picked up the picture frame. Ronso had a violent urge to go over and tear it out of his hand.

 

"Your friend's daughter?" he asked, his back to Ronso.

 

Nothing was simple when dealing with a man like Sierra and Ronso resented the hell out of a question asked if its answer was already known. But he was a soldier and he didn't miss the gesture's significance, a sniper doesn't just expose his back to another combatant. He might be reading too much into it but he still felt a bit mollified by it.

 

"Yeah, that's Yuna," Ronso replied in a tone that didn't invite more words on the subject.

 

"She's living with her aunt but you're paying for her support. How are you going to send her next month's cheque?"

 

He stood up in one abrupt movement; the sofa pushed back by the weight and strength of his body. He used his height to loom over the other man and growled, "I'm not working for some wannabe gangster playing Godfather."

 

"You're not," Sierra said, all calm persuasion, "You'll be working for me. I need someone to watch my back. Someone I can trust."

 

Ronso snorted. "You don't trust anyone, man."

 

Leon Sierra tilted his head back to maintain eye contact. Ronso had to give him points for having balls, big ones apparently. Not many guys could stare him in the eye and not back down. Plus he wasn't going to pretend his ego wasn't stroked by the request for help from a confirmed loner-cum-killer like Sierra. And he _did_ need the money.

 

"Sure, I'll be your spotter." Ronso shrugged then grinned like a shark.

 

"Good." Sierra nodded and that was it...............

 

 

.................. While Ronso followed Sierra down the building's graffiti-stained stairs, the elevator was purely decoration here, he wondered who the man was hunting and felt a stab of sympathy for the unknown guy. Poor bastard wouldn't know what hit him. Maybe literally.

 

______________________________________

Prompt: 18. Children


End file.
